


It's not that bad at all

by balefully



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Comeplay, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balefully/pseuds/balefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn and Niall are on their own in LA—Zayn notices Niall's not quite himself lately, and takes matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not that bad at all

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hungerpunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungerpunch/gifts).



> A fill for the prompt: "Zayn discovers Niall's love for restraints. Maybe it starts as a joke, but becomes rapidly clear that Niall's really into it, and being the intuitive and protective person that he is, Zayn can tell exactly when his good boy starts to need it. On tour or off tour, doesn't matter to me but I'd prefer canon-compliance on the whole." I tried to stick to it, but it kind of ended up...not quite exactly this. Hope you still enjoy! <3 Title from Trapped In My Mind, by Kid Cudi.
> 
> Thanks so much to [bisousniall](http://bisousniall.tumblr.com/) for the emergency beta and [lazy_daze](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_daze) for the Britpick!

It's at least 35 degrees outside, sun beating down through a cloudless blue sky. The air is thick enough that Zayn can feel it inside his nose. Harry's house in LA is quiet, tucked back from the road, lush but not too gaudy. Everything smells fresh and green around where Zayn's sprawled out on a bench by the pool. He has his shirt off and he's wearing a random pair of basketball shorts he found folded on the couch earlier—he's not sure whose they are, but they're definitely not his. He'd guess Niall's, probably. Harry's not around at the moment, apparently at Jeff's for the foreseeable future.

Niall is playing guitar over on the patio, tucked under the awning so he doesn't boil up lobster red in the sun. It's definitely one of the tracks from the new album, maybe the one they were laying down with Jamie in the studio the other day. Zayn's sure he's right once Niall starts singing after the opening bars. He sounds clear but soft, really only doing it for himself. Zayn's pleased he can hear it over the soft trickle of the pool filter. Niall's voice feels crisp to him, refreshing like someone's put a flannel dipped in cool water against the back of Zayn's neck.

He breathes the wafting chlorine and sweet hint of honeysuckle deep into his lungs. His body tingles with how good the heat feels, his muscles loosening and relaxing. Niall starts to doodle around on his guitar, embellishing and changing up the melody until he's playing something completely new. The music pauses every once in a while, and though Zayn can't see anything but the red glow of the sun against his closed eyes, he knows Niall's probably writing down chord progressions as he comes up with them.

Zayn dozes off for a while then, and the next thing he knows, someone's fingers are in his hair and his skin feels tight and hot, like he's been lying out too long. "C'mon," Niall's saying. "I know you're like a fuckin' lizard, soaking it up out here, but a couple of hours is more than enough. You might not think you'll burn, but you will."

Zayn sits up, squinting at Niall's face silhouetted against the bright sky. Niall's fingers curl a bit in his hair—he's let it get so long now, it sticks damply against the sides of his neck—and then drop away suddenly. Everything looks a bit greyer, almost burned-out. The sun shining through Zayn's eyelids was too much even when he was asleep, like the cones in his retinas are tired. He read a book on his Kindle once about the science of visual art; those are the cells that see colour.

He nods and lets Niall pull him up, his hand a bit sweaty but nice against Zayn's palm. "Also I made sandwiches." Niall's practically thrumming with energy, and it makes Zayn itch to look at him, at the shifting of the muscles in his forearms.

"Had me at sandwiches," Zayn says, letting go of Niall's hand to stretch the tips of his fingers up as far as he can, rolling up onto the balls of his feet, feeling it through his calves, his thighs, his back. Niall grins at him; he's not wearing a shirt, and somehow he's pink all down his chest, just a bit, even though he'd been doing so well to stay in the shade earlier. One of his pecs twitches and Zayn looks away, dragging his feet as he heads inside just to feel the grass between his toes. 

*

After they're finished eating, Niall's loading up the dishwasher at the far counter, and Zayn is sitting at the chef's island in the middle of the kitchen, bare toes curled around the cool metal of the bar stool he's perched on. He's got Louis on Facetime; they were trying to remember their game design idea from the other week. Neither of them wrote it down, of course, but Zayn's pretty sure if they remembered it it'd have the sickest game mechanics ever.

The conversation has wound up now—that's the thing with Louis, even silence is never awkward. They can just sit there breathing down the line and it's fine. Louis is typing and Zayn's drinking his beer, watching Niall shifting around in the periphery. Louis's work phone buzzes; Zayn can hear it vibrating on his desk. "Should get that," Louis says.

"Okay," Zayn says, nodding even though Louis isn't looking at him. "See you soon, mate. Text you later, yeah?"

Louis hangs up, and Zayn slides his phone across the counter with a sigh. He folds his arms in front of himself, putting his head down on them, looking over at Niall.

Niall's in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, now. They all match, sleek and modern and definitely not something Harry would've picked out. He probably bought the house with all the model furniture in it. Niall's sitting on his hands, toes on the ground, but his heels in bright white cotton socks are bouncing against the wood grain. He's so antsy, it's palpable, washing over Zayn in waves. He's been fidgety all day. Zayn would be annoyed that Niall's harshing his mellow if he weren't immediately concerned that something's actually wrong.

"You alright, Nialler?" he asks softly, swinging around on the bar stool. They've both got their shirts back on—it's cool in the house. Niall's plucking at the hem of his tee.

"'Course I'm alright," he says, shooting Zayn an irritated look. "Why wouldn't I be alright?"

"You're like," Zayn starts, trying to put it into words. "You're vibrating out of your skin, mate." He puts his hands out like he's holding a football, making them shake.

"Am I?" Niall asks, head cocked to the side. He reminds Zayn of a nervous Chihuahua all of a sudden.

"You are." Niall shakes his head like he doesn't know what to say. Zayn just shrugs. "Suit yourself." He slides off the bar stool and shuffles to the tin on the coffee table over in front of the couch. "Hey, Nialler, come light up with me. It'll settle you down."

Niall gets up too, but he's shaking his head again. "Nah, it won't. I'll be clawing at myself and begging you to take me to A and E 'cause I think I'm having a heart attack."

"You were fine last time," Zayn says, just as a point of information, not trying to pressure him.

"Well I have to be in the right mood, you know," Niall says. He's looking out the plate glass door into the large garden, rolling the sleeves of his t-shirt up and down again. His shoulders are all tight and it makes Zayn need a smoke even more, just thinking about how he's feeling. This is just like Niall used to be around crowds, before he got acclimated. Is sometimes still, if he doesn't have a chance to prepare himself beforehand.

"No spliff then," he murmurs, and goes over to stand by Niall, gazing at the pool as it ripples in a light breeze. Niall's biting his fingernails now, the click of them between his teeth weirdly loud. Zayn grabs his hand and pulls it away from his mouth, fingers wrapped around Niall's wrist. Niall takes a surprised breath and relaxes, letting Zayn clutch at him. "How about a couple of beers instead?" Zayn puts on his silly voice, tries to put as much chillness as possible into his words. "We'll watch a film and have a cuddle, see how you're feeling then." It always used to work; no reason why it shouldn't still.

Zayn picks Stranger Than Fiction off Netflix, since Harry doesn't have any DVDs in the house yet. Niall hasn't ever met a Will Ferrell movie he doesn't love. It's perfect, calm and funny, and Zayn's tucked into the corner of the couch with his arm resting along the back, Niall listing ever-closer to his side.

Niall's breathing gets slower and his muscles loosen up as they sit together, sipping on their beers. He's had three by the time Zayn absently lets his fingers play in the soft virgin-brown hair at the nape of his neck. That's when Niall finally relaxes against him, shoulder tucked under Zayn's armpit, the left side of his chest and belly pressed along Zayn's right. Zayn uses more of his fingers, then, rubbing at the knots in the back of Niall's neck, scritching gently up into his hair and down along his shoulders. It feels good. At first, Niall's heartbeat is fast against Zayn's body, but soon their pulses are in sync, chilled out. It's better than meditation, and Zayn lets himself feel smug, that he's that good, that he can do that for Niall without Niall even asking. Sometimes, maybe, he knows Niall better than Niall knows himself.

*

"Come shopping with me," Niall says the next day, from where he's sprawled out on the other side of Zayn's bed. It's one in the afternoon, which as far as Zayn is concerned is still bright and early in the morning. He has jetlag as an excuse, but even if he were back home, it's not really time to get up until at least two. That's when hunger starts trumping sleep; never sooner.

Niall came in around eleven, just flopped down on Zayn's bed like he belonged there. Zayn woke up at the flump, but he didn't open his eyes, just prayed Niall would either go to sleep or leave if he was still enough. He's not really that heavy a sleeper, but he pretends he is so people will try to wake him up less, knowing how much effort it's going to be. "It's too quiet and my headphones hurt my ears," Niall had mumbled into the pillow. He fell asleep before Zayn did, which suited Zayn just fine.

He's up again, apparently. Zayn throws caution to the wind and opens his eyes. Niall's peering over at him, head propped up on one hand. His face has a red pillow-crease on it and his hair is a wreck. He smells a bit sour, like sleep, but so does Zayn's bed and that's Zayn's favourite place to be. "Please?"

"No," Zayn says, and flops over, pulling his pillow over his head. Niall's eyes are all big and limpid and sleepy-cute and he looks like a pathetic idiot. It's too early for all that.

"C'mon," Niall says, putting on a surfer brah accent. "Come on, dude, it'll be totally gnarly. Tubular." He knees up and over to straddle Zayn's thighs, duvet puffy and sleep-warm between them. Niall weighs practically nothing but his stupid impression is grating on Zayn's nerves, and he just wants to fucking sleep. Niall hardly ever draws the short straw when it's time to send someone to wake Zayn up, and Zayn can't say he minds.

He doesn't even really think about it when he snaps up, hand pressing against Niall's bare sternum, flipping him over onto his back and sliding one thigh across Niall's hips to pin him down to the mattress, his other hand in a strong grip around Niall's forearm, pressing it up towards the headboard so Niall can't push him off or wriggle away.

Niall's looking up at him with his mouth open in a slack little "o", wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, skin hot and chest rising quick and shallow under Zayn's hands. "Sorry, man," Niall manages, sounding choked even though Zayn's not cutting off any of his air. His pupils are huge. Zayn feels weird, suddenly, more awake than he can remember feeling since they've been in LA. He doesn't let go straight away, and Niall's practically melting in his hands, going soft everywhere their bodies are touching.

"I'll come," Zayn says, barely above a whisper, looking down at Niall's face, at that open expression. "Gimme a minute. Go have a shower or something." Niall nods like a bobblehead but he doesn't move other than that, not until Zayn lets go and rolls back over into the sheets. His heart is pounding like he mainlined two Red Bulls. There's the rustle and shuffle of Niall getting out of his bed and then he hears the skitter of bare feet down the hardwood floor in the hall.

Zayn groans into his pillow and slides a hand down underneath himself to the persistent poke of his morning semi. He takes care of it quickly, perfunctorily, not thinking of anything at all except for maybe a few flashes here and there—pink skin, tightness and warmth, soft hair, wide, trusting eyes. Pretty much nothing.

*

Niall's been on his phone since Zayn got himself down the kitchen for coffee and his first fag of the day. It becomes apparent why when they get out to the drive and there's a slick black Ferrari parked in front of the house. It's sick, rolling the windows down and blasting Tupac as they race down the highway. It feels right. Niall looks so at-ease, so pleased with himself behind the wheel when he glances over at Zayn. "Where to, Miss Daisy?"

"Melrose?" Zayn says after a minute. It's kind of a tradition for them, now.

"Read my mind," Niall says, all teeth and squinty eyes behind his Ray-Bans.

Security meets up with them at the carpark, but the lads hang back mostly while Zayn and Niall walk down the pavement, side by side and relatively unplagued by fans. They go to Topman first, and Zayn manages not to ask why Niall wants to bother when they've got a perfectly good Topman at home. Niall buys a few t-shirts that are at least a size too big without even trying them on, and a pair of Vans. Zayn buys a necklace and some new shades, a new jacket, and one particularly great pair of Docs. Ryan the security guy carries Zayn's bags, but Niall insists with a crackling laugh that he be allowed to carry his own.

They wander over to Santa Monica after that, and Niall's got his phone out, looking up every couple of feet. "Got somewhere in mind?" Zayn asks, lighting a cigarette, and Niall jerks his head at the corner on the next block.

"Yeah, over there," he says, and they walk down Highland a bit until they come to to a camera shop. Zayn finishes his cigarette before he follows Niall in. It's small but clean, and everything smells tangy, like film and metal. It's a good smell. The guy behind the counter either doesn't recognize them or doesn't care.

"Can I help you?" he asks, cheerful but soft-spoken.

"I'm looking for a Polaroid camera," Niall says, looking around absently. His toe's tapping against the fake linoleum, and Zayn chews on his lip a little bit, watching. "You know, one of the ye olde instant ones?"

"Sure," the guy says with a genial smile, and beckons them over to a display behind the counter. "We've got some great vintage models. What's your price point?"

Niall laughs. "Don't really have one. Whatever you recommend." Zayn smiles slyly.

"Well, if you don't mind spending a little more, I'd say you should go for an original SX 70." Zayn notices now that his nametag says Simon. "We've got a beauty here, white with original leather." It does look nice, and very Niall.

Niall talks to guy for a while longer while Zayn wanders around the shop, looking at the prints on the wall, lingering like he's in a gallery. Niall's getting really good with a camera; he's come a long way from the random pictures of hotel rooms that filled his phone their first year touring. He's got an eye for composition, now, and he and Harry know more about fine art than Zayn's ever managed to pick up.

"Ready?" Niall asks, hooking his chin over Zayn's shoulder out of nowhere.

Zayn's far past the point of being startled by Niall or any of the other boys—he just shrugs him off, crossing his eyes and smiling stupidly. "I vas born ready, like," he says in his silly voice.

"Can't wait to try it," Niall says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, visibly wound up. Zayn presses his lips into a thin line to keep from smiling, but he puts a hand on the back of Niall's neck and gives him a squeeze, pleased that he's excited but kind of hoping he'll settle for the drive home. He can't help but think about Niall's face that morning, the feel of his muscles relaxing under Zayn's fingers last night.

Security walks them back to the car park, but there's a fan in wait who comes up to them in the Ferrari as soon as the lads are gone. Niall's a good sport and lets him take a picture, but Zayn is immediately irritated, hiding his face rather than rewarding stalking.

"Sorry," Niall says once he's gone. "Would've been worse to peel out without taking a picture. Never see the end of it on Twitter."

Zayn just shrugs. He doesn't ever read Twitter unless he's forced to, really, he learned his lesson fairly early on. It's no skin off his what disgusting bullshit they're all saying at any given moment. If he's not in the mood for a picture, he's not in the mood for a picture.

Niall's tapping at the steering wheel at every red light, constantly fiddling with the side wing mirrors, looking to see if anyone's following them. It doesn't seem like paranoia, really, just that same kind of restless energy he had last night. Zayn sits and watches him, trying to will him calm, sending chill vibes out into the car around them. "D'you need to be tied down or something, mate?" he mumbles. Niall laughs overloud, throwing his head back probably farther than he should while driving. His cheeks are pinker than they were a moment ago.

Zayn drops his bags inside the door as soon as they get in, kicking off his shoes and flopping onto the couch. "We could go to the hotel tonight," he says, flicking on the telly. "Josh texted earlier."

"Yeah, okay," Niall says from the kitchen island where he's reading the manual that came with his new camera. "Not that I'm sick of your gorgeous face or anything," he adds, drawing out the "r" in gorgeous and batting his eyelashes over his shoulder, "but it'd be good to have a few drinks and some banter with the lads." He turns back to the booklet.

"Wake me up at, like, eleven," Zayn says, and closes his eyes.

*

Zayn's got his new leather jacket on, a pair of Niall's Ray-Bans that he's nicked, and Gucci Guilty Black. They have about half of one of the top floors of the W—even without the five of them staying there, security and the crew and the band get close to pride of place.

Niall's in a grey burnout tee, soft and clinging with his skin showing through just enough. It's long enough to be a dress on him, and he's wearing it over the ever-present skinnies with the knees ripped out, gnarled scar on display like he's proud of it. As he should be. It's not too hot out, luckily, and Niall's got a black and white bomber jacket on over his tee. His Vans are black leather. He couldn't get his hair to flip up properly, ever a point of shame for him, so he wet it down instead. His fringe dried soft, brushing over his forehead, and it's a good look.

The hotel rooms are generic—they're in someone's suite, although Zayn's not entirely sure whose. There aren't tons of people there, but enough that Zayn doesn't recognize all of them. He's perched on the table by the window, all the curtains drawn and the lights low. He's just about to light a cigarette when someone aims one of the desk lamps at him, bathing him in yellow light. It's Niall, the viewfinder of his new camera up to his eye. "Don't move," he says, so Zayn doesn't look up. He hears the click-whir of the camera, the cranking of the picture sliding out. Niall bends the desk lamp towards himself—he's sitting on the desk chair backwards, his jacket crumpled under himself. "Sick," he murmurs, taking a sip of what looks like whisky in his hand. It's rare he goes for hard stuff rather than beer, and Zayn remembers the tense muscles in his shoulders, the twitch of his chest in the garden the other day.

Niall passes the picture to Zayn, and Zayn takes it carefully, hyperware of his fingertips leaving prints. "Woah," he says. It looks totally sick, Niall's right. He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the picture before handing it back to Niall.

"Nah, keep it," he says. His smile is small, private. Zayn swallows with a click, throat dry.

"Thanks," he says, raising the picture towards Niall with a nod before tucking it safely into one of the inner pockets of his jacket. He takes a drag of the newly lit cigarette, and Niall opens and closes his fingers in a grabby gesture. Zayn passes it over warily.

"I just had three whiskies," Niall says, by way of explanation, and Zayn laughs, lighting a second cigarette from his for Niall to have all to himself. Niall takes shallow drags but still starts blinking after a while in that nicotine-high way he does when he drunk smokes. Zayn shakes his head fondly and Niall grins at him, cheeks flushed and eyes sparking with energy, even though he's sitting. His feet are tucked awkwardly behind the legs of the chair, and he's sitting on his hands. Zayn takes it all in, a sheen of drunkenness making things clearer and more confusing all at once.

*

They get back to the house when watery thin sunlight is just starting to leak over the horizon, blurred by smog. They're dropped off at the end of Harry's driveway and walk up in the relative cool, trees just emerging from shadows around them. Niall's skipping in place as they go, keeping pace with Zayn but leaping feet into the air with each step. "Alright?" Zayn asks, kicking at the gravel drive.

"Just don't feel—done," Niall says, rolling his shoulders and turning around to walk backwards, looking at Zayn with wild eyes as he goes. Zayn just hums in response, lips a little numb with booze, and rubs a hand over his own stubble. It's not really stubble anymore, growing out soft like his hair.

He kicks off his boots the second they're inside. Niall immediately heads over to the stereo and puts something on—it's California Love, and Niall's hopping around in the living room like he just can't stay still, jacket chucked towards the couch and eyes fixed on the floor. Zayn's not really paying attention to the music, just Niall.

In that moment, everything slows down until it makes sense. He has Niall's wrists in his hand before he even knows it, that alcohol fuelled single-mindedness sweeping him across the room.

"Hey," Zayn murmurs, fingers tightening. Niall stills all at once.

"Sorry," he breathes. He smells like spearmint chewing gum more than whisky, and he still has one of Zayn's cigarettes tucked over his ear. His eyelashes are paler than Zayn remembers. These are the things that occur to Zayn, little details adding up to a larger picture. Niall's bones feel delicate in his hand.

"Tell me if I've got it wrong," Zayn breathes, all he can bring himself to say before he leans in and kisses Niall, pulling down on his wrists as he does. He kisses hard, steals Niall's breath. Niall takes it so well, opens up to Zayn's mouth, tongue cool from mint, muffled sounds collecting at the back of his throat.

Zayn walks him backwards towards the couch, leg between Niall's, pressing against him until he moves. Niall doesn't struggle to get free, but he pulls against Zayn's grip, testing it, and then relaxing into it. It makes Zayn's chest swell, makes the blood rush in his head to feel Niall's arms go loose in his grip, to push Niall down onto the couch with a knee between his thighs, pressed up close enough that he can feel Niall's dick hard against his flies. Niall gasps softly into Zayn's lips, and Zayn pulls back.

"Is this, like—" Zayn starts, suddenly unsure of himself. Niall's looking back at him like Zayn's about to rip him apart, helpless, and it seems like a lot. Like too much, maybe. "Is this what you want? Is it okay?"

Niall nods. "Yeah, Zayn," he manages, a hectic flush from his cheeks all the way down under the collar of his t-shirt. He clicks his teeth together, shutting his mouth before he can say anything else. His arms are trembling a little bit; Zayn can feel every tremor. He tilts his chin up, just barely, but Zayn sees it and leans in, presses a softer kiss to his lips this time.

"Good," he says. "That's so good." Niall makes a soft sound then, and Zayn braces himself against the couch with the hand not holding Niall's wrists, trying to box Niall in, to keep him contained, to hold him without holding him.

Everything is warm and Zayn's skin tingles all over, chest suffused with every noise Niall makes, every breath that brushes past Zayn's cheek or his neck. "I got you," Zayn says, and he reaches between them to get at Niall's jeans.

Niall's hard, dick flushed pink and pretty just like his face, drooling wet at the tip already. He's panting, too, eyes fixed on Zayn's hand where he's gripping his wrists—not where he's gripping Niall's cock. Zayn starts to work him over then, the angle awkward on the couch with only one hand and Niall's arms to think about, but the way Niall's eyelashes flutter as his eyes roll and close, the vulnerable way his head tips back against the couch, throat bared—Zayn's own comfort is the last thing he's worrying about. His focus narrows down completely to Niall, to the way his thighs are twitching against Zayn's, his arse shifting back into the couch cushions as the small of his back bows, like he'd be opening up so easy for Zayn if he were on all fours, or spread out on his belly in Zayn's bed.

Zayn swallows hard and tries not to grunt. "Fuck, you look good." Niall's breath hitches.

"I'm gonna—" Niall says, and Zayn speeds up, thumbing at the head of his dick. He clenches his fist around Niall's wrists, not so hard the bones grind but hard enough that Niall can't forget Zayn's got him, isn't letting him go.

"Do it," Zayn says. He feels giddy, high on the open lines of Niall's body, and he ducks down when he feels Niall's cock jerking in his hand, presses his tongue to the smooth, dark pink head of it. Niall comes hard, and Zayn's ready, catching the hot spurts of it. Niall's looking down his own body at Zayn, spaced out and disbelieving as his hips flex and each slick wad of jizz collects on Zayn's tongue. The corners of Zayn's parted lips draw up around Niall's cock, smug. Niall tastes sour, thick, and it's so good his mouth's watering. Niall's barely able to catch his breath once he's done, and Zayn lets him have a good long look at his load on Zayn's tongue before he swallows it down, licking over his lips after it's gone. Niall's pulse is slow and even, now, and he's loose-limbed.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers, and Zayn tucks him back in his pants before he takes one of Niall's hands in each wrist, squeezing twice, gently, then letting him go, finally. Niall's hands fall limply to the couch cushion beside his thighs. It's a long moment of silence, the pounding in Zayn's ears the only sound beyond Niall's breath. "What about you, then?" Niall asks, hoarse, a little slurred.

Zayn shrugs. "I'm alright, aren't I?"

"You don't look alright," Niall says, nodding his forehead towards Zayn's obvious stiffy in his skinny jeans. His arms are still limp by his sides. Zayn hadn't really felt his own cock anymore until Niall pointed it out, relishing Niall's responsiveness so much it didn't even matter to him.

"I'll take care of it later, like," Zayn says, pushing off the sense of urgency that floods back to him. He hooks a finger under Niall's chin instead, tilting his face up to press a kiss to his lips, pushing the taste of Niall's come to him on his tongue. Niall pulls away after a moment and takes a breath like he's about to say something, but when Zayn raises his eyebrows, waiting, he just kisses along Zayn's jaw. He nuzzles into Zayn's beard and rubs his lips down his neck, easily finding the place under his ear that makes him shiver into goosebumps. Niall grins and noses at it a few more times, and Zayn sucks in a shaky breath. "You should sleep," he says suddenly. "C'mon." He stands up and pulls Niall after him.

"You gonna tuck me in?" Niall says, and he probably meant for it to be cheeky, but he's so drained now, so loose and fuzzy around the edges that it just sounded earnest and sweet.

"Yup," Zayn says, and tows him down the hall.

"You missed my room," Niall says.

"You're gonna kip with me." Zayn gives him a soft smile, and he could swear Niall's never looked more pleased. It's just that things are in a delicate place. Niall's maybe in a delicate place. He'd probably end up in Zayn's bed in the morning anyway.

"Sleepover," Niall mumbles, clearly fading fast. Zayn really does tuck him in, all snug as a bug in a rug, before he goes to brush his own teeth and wash his face and wank furiously over the toilet. Everything is Niall's soft mouth and the slutty bow of his back and the way he shivers under Zayn's grip. Zayn imagines him with his wrists bound in a leather strap, something stark and rough against his pale skin. He imagines fingering him open, fucking him deep, coming across his belly and rubbing it in, kissing after it, pressing his mouth to every inch of Niall's body.

He feels almost crazy with it, and he groans as he comes—it seems impossible that he'd never touched Niall's dick before tonight, that he'd never kissed him, that they were shopping earlier today and he'd never seen the look on Niall's face when Zayn showed him his own spunk on his tongue. It seems impossible that he could do it again. Now that they've started, there's no telling where it could go.

Zayn puts on clean pants and crawls into bed beside Niall, who is still tucked in tight, arms at his side under the duvet, breathing deeply, calm and soft in his sleep. Zayn drifts off watching him, wondering if maybe he should get some water and paracetamol to put on the bedside table for when Niall wakes up.

*

Zayn is the one who wakes up to water and paracetamol. "Morning," Niall says from the armchair in the corner of the room, looking up from his phone when Zayn sits up to drink the water.

"Oh, are you still here?" Zayn says, but he can't keep the smile off his face. Niall's smiling back.

"Can't fuckin' get rid of me," Niall says.

"Get your arse back in bed, like," Zayn groans, flopping back into his pillow face-first. "Too early."

"Hey," Niall says, hopping onto the foot of the bed. He doesn't move, so Zayn glares down at him with one eye. "We're good, right?" His entire body looks more fluid, every line of his face happy and relaxed. He's perched on the end of the bed and he's not fidgeting, isn't picking at the duvet or rolling his shoulders. Zayn feels warm all along his sternum.

"The best." There's a bright flash, and Zayn recoils, pulling the pillow back over his face. "What the fuck?"

"Cheese," Niall says, and slips the Polaroid onto the nightstand next to Zayn's water glass.


End file.
